


From the Floorboards Up

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because if he’s lost track of it, the number of times his tongue’s been in her mouth, her hand on the front of his trousers, pressing and palming and so, so warm, well, he’s going to have to consider that something they’re doing, instead of something that happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Floorboards Up

**Author's Note:**

> [Melissa](http://somethingofthewolf.tumblr.com/) tag-baited me with [two](http://somethingofthewolf.tumblr.com/post/26675097847) [posts](http://somethingofthewolf.tumblr.com/post/26676704545) from David Tennant and Billie Piper at the 2006 V Festival, which is apparently Melissa’s favorite thing to bait me with, but it finally took! 2,200 words worth! With a Paul Weller song as the title, because apparently he played that festival and Paul Weller is awesome.

The morning of the festival he forces himself to sit down and count, actually count, how many times it’s been.

How many times he’s had Billie’s lips pressed against his, how many times he’s collapsed on top of her, laughing and panting, skin against skin and slick with sweat.

Because if he’s lost track of it, the number of times his tongue’s been in her mouth, her hand on the front of his trousers, pressing and palming and so, so warm, well, he’s going to have to consider that something they’re  _doing_ , instead of something that  _happens_.

The number’s not so bad in the end, he can tick it off on his fingers and still have a couple left over, but as he moves from one hand to the other, it starts to seem like dangerous ground anyway.

The sort of ground that’s liable to get somebody hurt, or several somebodies, him and her, and Sophia and Laurence, and dozens of other people, all trapped in their orbit.

She’s still  _married_ , for fuck’s sake. Technically speaking, anyway.

So, when he gets dressed, he tells himself it’s not going to happen again, that he’s not pulling on a blue t-shirt because it reminds him of her, and that shirt she’d bought him what seems like forever ago, the silly Doctor one that’s crammed in a box in the corner of his closet, with pub napkins and hotel keys and a hundred other things he’d have a hard time explaining.

And in the car to the festival, he repeats it to himself, over and over, it’s not going to happen again, it’s not going to happen again, and it works, right until he sees her.

She’s got his credentials dangling from her fingertips, and she swings them in a circle a few times as he walks closer. When he’s right in front of her, the movement slows and she’s tugging on his shoulder, forcing him to lean down. Then she’s looping the badge around his neck, tongue between her teeth as she releases him, smoothing the lanyard down with her fingers on his chest.

And he knows, it’s going to happen again.

"Told them I was David Tennant and no one even batted an eye," she says.

"Oh, you know me, liable to shrink eight inches and put on women’s clothing, if the mood strikes," he says.

Her eyes skate down down down, lingering at the front of his jeans, “Well, at least you’ve got the inches to give.”

Before he can get his response out, the words rushing to order themselves, clumsy and slow in his mouth, she’s pulling him by the hand further into the VIP area.

The list of bands he wants to see is a mile long and he’d spent hours pouring over the festival line up, trying to map out a plan of attack between the stages, determined to learn from his time at Glastonbury, but it’s no use. Billie sits down on a patch of grass like she’s making a home and he writes it all off, because wherever she is, he can tell he’ll be nearby.

Two hours later she’s gone and gotten herself trapped in a port-a-loo and it turns out he wasn’t quite close enough, because he’s not the one to free her. She comes barreling at him across the field, arms wrapping his shoulders and legs stretching like she’s trying to climb him, shoving as much of their bodies into contact as she possibly can.

"Port-a-loo germs for you, Ten-Inch!" She’s laughing, rubbing against him like a cat, and he makes a show of trying to shove her away, yuck and ick and, oh, god, right there, again.

He finally wrestles her off, tucking her under his arm as he walks them toward the catering tent, making a big show of trying to leave her at the door of it, announcing loudly that it’s unsanitary for her to be in there now.

She swears up and down she hadn’t touched anything in the loo, stood as far from the walls as possible, and only pounded on the door with the one fist, a fist she’s washed several times since then, dunked in antibacterial goo repeatedly, and if he doesn’t let her in, he has to get her some food, and she’s feeling  _very_  particular.

He relents, holding the opening to the tent up for her, and then she abandons him, running to a group of girls he doesn’t recognize and sitting at their table. He wanders back outside to eat on the grass and she follows a few minutes later, one of the girls in tow.

There’s music and sunlight and Billie Piper in a hat, her hair escaping in little pieces, and her legs tucked up underneath her.

There’s the sheen of her tights wrapped around her thighs and he wants to scratch his fingers up them, higher and higher, and what sort of knickers is she wearing today? He wants to know, wants to know more than he wants Morrissey to play some old stuff, more than he wants to finish eating, more than he wants the cameras pointed at them to shove off.

She’s talking with her friend again, stories about people he doesn’t know, people he doesn’t _want_  to know, because their lives are not shared ones, he can’t be with her like that, and the reasons aren’t all on his side.

He catches her eye anyway, joining the conversation and steering it to something common, John and Noel and Russell, and what it’d be like if they all formed a band, made a bid to play the next big festival. Billie would sing, naturally, and he himself plays a mean kazoo.

The day bleeds into night, sun setting as the stages build toward their headliners and people come and go from their little patch of grass. Billie’s gone through half a pack of cigarettes, taken her hat off, and they’ve both trooped to the keg a few times, but it’s not enough. He wants to get away from the crowds and the noise, wants to be able to stare at her mouth and wipe off the little smirk that quirks her lips with his own.

He’s got no interest in the swag tent, not really, except for how he hasn’t seen anyone visit it for at least 20 minutes and he knows for a fact there’s a small, private changing area to get fitted for one of the giveaways.

"What do you say, Bills? Go get what’s ours — or ours to donate?" He stands and dusts himself off before reaching down a hand to help her. He smiles when she takes the offer, gripping his fingers and letting him pull her up.

She keeps their hands together, loosely intertwined, as they walk, and it shouldn’t feel like anything, they do this all the time, they get  _paid_  to do this, but it’s always different.

Here, in the dark, in  _public_ , it feels different in a way that’s normal — normal for two people that don’t have anyone else waiting for them, and he shoves down the thing that reminds him they are anything but normal.

The swag tent is deserted, not even an employee to be found, just the wreckage that comes from offering something for free, empty boxes, and strewn bags, and a few sturdy looking tables he wants to bend her over.

"Think we missed the good stuff," she says, eyes tracing the same path his took.

"Did we? Might be something in there," he says, nodding at the door of the changing room. The walls on it don’t look very thick, it’s meant to be temporary after all, but there’s a lock on the door, and they’ve always been good at keeping it quiet, in more ways than one.

She raises her eyebrows, but chases them with a grin, one with that damn tongue of hers, the one he wants sliding alongside his own, or circling other things.

He tugs on her hand, leading her toward the door and then she’s pressing him against it, breasts against his back and fingers dropping from his so she can get at the handle.

She turns it open and the force of her behind him propels him through. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, and he almost,  _almost_  makes a TARDIS joke, but then she’s turning so they can face each other.

This is always the tricky part, the part where they see who breaks first, who’s got the blood on their hands this time, but he’s spent the day pulling at the wound, and he leans down to kiss her with barely a thought.

Her mouth opens under his without preamble and this, this lack of hesitancy, this should be a sign that they’ve done this too many times, that it’s too familiar.

Somehow it just makes it better, the way she knows she just what to do with her tongue, knows to slide her hands into his hair and tug, the way she doesn’t even flinch when his own settle around her waist, pulling her into him with a shallow thrust.

There’s another one of those sturdy-looking tables at the back of the space and he walks her toward it, fingers under the hem of her shirt and curling into the skin there. She pulls back to hop onto the surface, legs wrapped around his waist and, oh, god, even when they take their time, this bit, the getting hard bit, it always happens so fast, faster than with anyone else. 

They can’t take anything off, it’s too much of a risk, the concert is still echoing around them, and if anyone were to find them, the less skin on the display, the better.

He drops his head to nip at her neck, teeth brushing her skin, and he wants, wants in a mad rush, with something deep in his gut, to bite and lick and suck until there’s a mark there, until they’re forced to talk about what this is and what it means.

Instead he pulls back just enough to get his hands between them and cup her breasts. She fits her hips more snugly against his, rocking into him and that’s it, this has been building all. fucking. day. He slides a hand up her skirt, groaning audibly at the barrier of tights and knickers under his fingers and she chases after his mouth to cover the noise.

"Arch up," he says before she catches him, and her little tongue, so hot and wet and perfect, stoppers the words.

She complies anyway, just enough for him to get his fingers into the edge of her knickers, dragging them along with the tights down to her calves and she shimmies them the rest of the way off.

He feels a release of pressure along the front of his jeans and realizes she’s got his button undone, snaking the zip down tooth by tooth.

"Yes, of course, take your time, that’s brilliant," he says, trying for sarcastic, but breaking off into a moan at the smirk she gives him.

"Did you have somewhere to be?" She finally gets the fly on his jeans open, thumbs hooking into the waistband and dragging them down before repeating the motion with his pants.

"I did, in fact," he says. "Let’s see if I remember how to get there."

He slides a hand up her skirt, fingers brushing, and he can’t help his delighted smile, “Oh, I’m _expected_ , what a warm welcome, that’s nice.”

Billie growls at him, leaning forward to lick at the skin under his jaw, and then her legs are around him and he’s matching up the angles.

It’s so good, it’s always good, the feel of her, like this, and it’s clear right then that he’s going to lose count somewhere, because he’s not going to give this up unless it’s dragged away.

There’s nowhere to brace his hands, the back wall is the cloth of the tent and they’d tumble right through, so he settles for her hips, pulling her toward him on each stroke. He sets a rhythm, a short, fast thing that has her yanking his hair with one hand, fingers digging into his back through his t-shirt with the other.

He’s mumbling, trying to keep his voice low,  _come_  and  _yes_  and  _now_ , and when her body goes taut, mouth opening wide and silent, his mind fills in the blanks. He rushes after her and ends up with a face full of hair to muffle the noise.

She drops her legs from him after a few moments and he steps back, letting her hop down from the table. They right their clothing and leave the dressing room. He grabs a couple of empty bags for each of them to carry, and it feels an awful lot like a cover up, but he does it anyway.

They spend the rest of the night like they spent the day, laughing and listening to music, his eyes trained on her and her grin pinning the stars.

Their cars are near each other when they go to leave and he almost does something crazy, almost gets her up against the side of one and snogs her goodnight.

Instead he opens her door for her, ducking down after she slides in.

"TV Quick Awards next month," he says and she smiles.

It happens again, it’s a thing they’re doing.


End file.
